Special Op: Lima Oscar Victor Echo
by theytalktome
Summary: In his dark, sick world Dean Ambrose has never felt empathy or love for another human being until now; unable to deal with it, killing the object of his affection seems to be a far better answer. (Slash.)
1. Special Op

Footsteps quietly pace back and forth just under the sky box above the arena, anxiousness burning through veins and knuckles cracking into clenched fists. Waiting for a match to end shouldn't have taken so long, and the one in the ring should have been a few seconds or a minute, tops.

With the focus of the crowd on Zack Ryder in the ring, they had not been noticed behind the fans stuck in nose-bleed seats. The Shield leader's pace intensifies until he takes a cursory glance into the ring, intentionally for a second, though by mistake his attention had been ensnared.

Ryder was hung up in the ropes, arms trapped when his opponent ran up behind him, striking him in the back of the head before being pulled off by the ref. He dodged out of the ring and laid in a vicious, ruthless kick, before a pinfall attempt. Fandango's aggression, clear and vicious from the second he begun watching, it was …intriguing. He intended to truly injure his opponent, to intentionally cause lasting harm… Ambrose liked it.

He turns to listen to Rollins, who had no doubt but noticed his distraction when he had been in the middle of explaining… something. He listens with his ears still focused on the crowd reaction; though he had fought the urge to turn around and enjoy seeing a good slaughter right before his eyes. As flashy and gaudy as The Ballroom Brawler was, there was just something Ambrose couldn't help but like about what he was seeing, and when Rollins had finished speaking, or rather quieted himself after noticing the unbearable expression in the blue eyes of his leader, he turned his attention back to the arena at once.

The limber star leapt up to the top rope in one graceful movement, delivering an impressive win with a brutal leg drop and easy pinfall. The crowd erupted for him, to the Leader's surprise. A smile crept across his lips, watching the arrogant man re-introduce himself properly to the crowd and pose with his less than interesting blonde valet. Even the way the brawler moved was captivating. Something about him was… perfect. His attention is captured back by Reigns, who was quick to question his motives for watching the match in the ring; with little time left between commercial and Cena's entrance, they had to start waiting to make their move.

Running his hand through his hair, he takes a quick glance back at the arena in time to completely miss seeing the one person who had actually appealed to his desires. Ambrose had never failed at anything before, and this particular thing was just waiting on his queue; he had a new thing to start tracking and focusing on, luckily the darkness at the top of the arena and corridors provided just that opportunity.

With her long black hair in a beautiful French twist up-do, modest height heels clicking in perfect rhythm and villainous eyes veiled by long lashes Mila twirled around the guerrilla position with her partner. Fandango studied her close to make sure the new dress spun correctly and matched the vision he had in mind for tonight, that the soft black fabric covered with white rhinestones had sparkled in such a precise way: a white and blue mini dress lost out on their chance to shine earlier.

He begins to discuss tonight's number with his graceful dancer, a far cry from the routine he had done a couple weeks earlier with prodigy Summer Rae, turning away when he's tapped on the shoulder by a stagehand. The match out in the ring between Randy Orton and Cody Rhodes had gone over their designated time frame, cutting into the new dance number he had planned, more than likely he would have to resort to the old routine. His words are short, to the point without being too threatening to the messenger; which is why he didn't exactly see the reason this man, as well as his beautiful swan princess was immediately backing away and darting out of the area entirely.

The extravagant Superstar rolls his eyes, sighing with frustration - he really hadn't meant to come off as threatening or dangerous, not yet at least. He takes a simple breath to regain composure he's certain he had lost - it hitches in his throat like a gunshot when he turned around; cornered by Dean Ambrose, threatening eyes undressing him from his ring gear and a sinister smile on his lips. Making a quick getaway attempt, he's caught in the powerful arms of Ambrose, his chest pressed up against the black military vest instead of having taken an immediate fall onto the catering table behind him full of water, snacks and energy drinks.

Fandango gasps and struggles against the grip once the realization has fully settled in of his new position, starting to beg for the merciless man to let him go, as he had done nothing to evoke the wrath of The Shield. He pulls away to the best of his ability, his wrist still trapped in the hard grasp of Ambrose who had kept pulling him back toward his body. Fandango pleads, each word drifting playfully through his attacker's ears, trying not to look Ambrose in the eyes he focuses on the rest of the area, searching for any signs of Rollins and Reigns.

Dean grins, it's unintentionally wicked and only progresses as his hand holding Fandango moved to his ribs and caressed down to his hips. The dancer even felt perfect in his arms.

He watches his hands gently moving while the other man is simply frozen in fear, as still as possible with a few nervous vibrations rattling his body. Ambrose's eyes finally follow an invisible trail left by his hands as he cups his face harshly, moving it so that he could see those unfortunately frightened deep blue eyes, he tilts his face a little gentler and releases the hard grip for a softer one. Another unsuccessful venture: trying to make a genuine, friendly smile.

He scans his eyes over him one more time, taking in the sweet sight of their closeness. There were so many different scenarios he had gone over in the past couple weeks of following and watching the man closely, so many opportunities passed up for this one. Dean Ambrose could not bare to sit in wait a day longer.

Unsure how to muster up admitting to a person outside of his two-person social circle that he had actual feelings of love and romance for someone, cared for another human being… it was difficult.

He struggled with his words before coming disclosing it aloud to the man he cared for: Fandango.

There's a silence.

An awkward stare.

A raised eyebrow.

A huff of scarce anxiety and a nervous chuckle from both parties.

Fandango's expression had changed from fear to this confused, silent, uncertain look before he glanced around, looking for Rollins and Reigns before he pulled himself away from Ambrose.

This wasn't a joke… It had not even been set up.

A date?

With Ambrose? Dean Ambrose, the leader of The Shield? This was really happening.

Fandango finally laughs openly at the mere suggestion made moments ago, he shakes his head and arrogantly prattles on about himself, his self-worth, and outright refuses The Shield's leader.

It was his turn to look the man in Special Ops attire up and down, chuckling again and starting to walk off; he looked back, however, just to inform Ambrose of the obvious: Dean simply could not dance; he didn't know how. He had no training in dance of any kind, especially not elegant ballroom dancing, and thus, no worth to Fandango.

The Ballroom Brawler couldn't be with a man who didn't dance; and he certainly was not going to leave his current lover: a trainer for Dancing with the Stars celebrities. Arrogantly, he had even assumed that the refusal was acceptable, and there would never be any ramification for it simply because Dean Ambrose wouldn't - or couldn't, attack the man he loved - because Fandango had seen the look of heart break in the man's eyes the second he refused his affection.


	2. A World at War

Dean Ambrose watches those long, sculpted legs sashay down the corridors to find his blonde, moot, dance partner. He can feel his hot breathe escaping through flared nostrils as his eyes

narrowed and fists clenched at his sides. He walks after him after a short pause, his footsteps quiet and quick. The blood boiling under his skin was obvious in his darkened eyes. If he could not have the graceful brunette, than no one would see him in the ring again.

The feel of the brunette's tanned body seized in his grasp, his own nails caking up the shredded skin under them as he clenched tighter, the perfect look of desperation and fear while he desperately tries to cry out for his life, only for his crushed vocal chords to be unable to make even a mere squeak. It was beautiful, that familiar look of pin-point pupils darkening while death settled in.

It was not like he hadn't been filled with these thoughts before, while watching the other man sleep or in bed by himself. It was second only to the vision of him choking on blood, various forms of inflicted trauma had been dwelled upon, as it was pouring and bubbling out of his mouth mixed with thick saliva.

He rushes forward to catch up with the other Superstar, spellbound by thoughts in the mind of a sociopath. He could practically see the blood pooling under his finger nails, see the body unresponsive and unresisting beneath him. The genius idea had the biggest smile on his face as he goes in pursuit of his victim; he tried to keep his laughter muffled under his breath. Fandango would be eternally his, long after the alluring aroma of mouth-watering decomposition set in.

Everybody had to die eventually, but the possibility had been that it just wasn't Fandango's time.

The slow paced and one-sided chase comes to a stop with a hand grabbing onto Ambrose's shoulder. Dean turns abruptly, resentment in his optics until they focus and settle on the older man, vengeance cut short with bothered curiosity taking place. At the request to follow him, Ambrose hesitates, looking back for Fandango who had now been out of sight, forcing him into letting the Superstar live another day while he followed Punk's manager, who at this point had simply resorted to dragging him along when his requests fell on distracted ears.

The beat down on Ryback had been so easy, so simple and fleeting that he barely remembered much about it, aside from standing over his battered body as justice prevailed.

Ambrose had even been far too distracted to pay attention to his drink at the bar, barely even touching it aside from a small sip between the debate in his head of what to do with the object of his affection. It had only been three days since his embarrassing rejection, and although he had convinced himself seeing Fandango again tonight would have been easier, it was nothing short of enraging.

Dean figured more than ever that the dancer would most obviously make a beautiful corpse, a beautiful example of anyone to cross him; and a lesson for himself to not have feelings for any human being outside of his Shield family again.

He exhales the smoke filling his lungs in the form of a depressed sigh, leaning up against the hotel door in thought.

He could just as simply not accept Fandango's rejection, to capture him backstage Friday night and drag him back to his home by dawn; to chain the man's legs and ankles to his bed and see just who couldn't dance. To kick him down on his knees whenever he let him have the luxury of standing up again. There was even some playful yearning in the thought of breaking the man's legs and see him unable to make a mere step.

He remembered how the rejection went, and how he could have made the proper move of kidnapping the new Superstar that night, instead of this week. No one would even be around, just as last week, and he had the power of The Shield if anyone had been.

Lying in wait, he would finally grab Fandango as he came from the ring, exhausted and worn out from a match against an opponent who hardly stood a chance, toss Summer Rae to whatever man would accept the pointy-nosed witch.

There were a few different ways he debated grabbing Fandango: primarily his preference had been from the front, so he could see the look in his sultry blue eyes, another had been the obvious: from behind. There was an air of artistry, mystery, intrigue, fantasy and fear about being grabbed from behind, struggling against a captor you could not identify. Ambrose's soft voice in his ear, his hot breath more dangerous than any loaded gun to the temple. A simple chloroform soaked Shield tee and his world would go black while his body surrendered to Ambrose without so much as a single word of protest; finally, he would belong to the leader of The Shield.

Dean chuckled aloud, unbeknownst to himself as he walks in slow strides from the door to the window, observing the highways and street lamps below while he takes another drag from his cigarette. In a perfect world, he would turn back around and his fantasy would be reality: finding the dancer tied to the bed in a room he wouldn't recognize as Ambrose's; wrists chained together with some old links his subjugator had found laying around, assembled to a post on the bed, and incase he had struggled they would mark and cut him, leaving Ambrose to lick up the crimson liquid from his skin beginning to pale.

When he had finally completely broken Fandango, he would be able to establish the relationship he desired with his prisoner; to trust him enough to let him wander the house, chained to something of course, and under supervision. He could cook, clean, and even be a beautiful little housewife-type after he was broke. No one would have cared to come and find the arrogant dancer, anyway. Eventually, he would come to love Dean.

A pair of soft arms around Ambrose's left stops him in his tracks from pacing back and forth across the hotel room in his thoughts.

The familiar scent of Seth Rollins' cologne drifting into his nostrils and the soft nuzzle against his neck as he was led to the bed and instructed to sit; he brushes back the blonde and separates it away from the black the way Rollin's likes it. The younger man hated his hair being touched, but Dean was some sort of exception to the rule, much to Reign's displeasure.

He obliged the highflier and sat there in his silence, cigarette stolen and thigh teasingly brushed against before the other quietly walked to his own opposite bed and cuddled into the arms of his own lover who thoroughly enjoyed watching the playful exchange.

Dean narrows his eyes at the wall, not wanting to direct his personal feelings towards Seth. and his relationship, when his own inactive personal life was somewhere between loving and killing someone.

His mind had wandered all over the situation, and the words of the self-absorbed Superstar. He gets up off the bed after seemingly endless sulking, snatching up the laptop from Roman and settling back down on his bed, giving him a threatening glare when he stood up to protest his actions; settling the larger man down on the couch without a second thought.

Dean looks up at Rollins just as he shares a peculiar glance and shrug with Roman before going back to some awkward heavy petting session with the latest in his bizarre choice of boyfriends; Rollins flipped over onto his back and sunk himself in the sheets beneath the much larger man, Dean's issues not much more than an afterthought.

Roman looks away from that particular sight, rolling his eyes and looking over in Dean's direction, focusing his curiosity there while the man began pecking at the keyboard with a look on his face he hadn't seen before. The way he had been acting lately was beyond stressful to the rest of The Shield: and it had all started when he and Rollins noticed his abnormal affinity for Fandango… They hadn't even been ordered to attack the man yet.

Dean pokes slowly at a few keys, staring at the search bar results with embarrassment in his mind, but refusing to show it on his face. Eventually he settled in with his privacy intact, immersing himself in the information with even the browser history set to private. The last thing he needed was someone to find out that he really was going insane. He plugs in his headphones and reclines back against the headboard: his newest plan would be nothing short of difficult - and after an hour or two of endless articles, how-to's and videos, it seemed that this idea was, possibly, completely impractical without the aid of another individual… outside of The Shield's social circle.


	3. Roads to Victory

Dean stares blankly at the woman beside him; focused on her feet moving on the same polished, beige dance floor he was standing on, shifting awkwardly and trying to feign a confident pose with his hands folded across his chest and gym sneakers firmly rooted to the wood when he found a comfortable enough position to observe in.

_****_The more he had thought about it over the course of the week, the better he had realized the only thing his love, Fandango, had rejected him for was one reason: he couldn't dance; and if he could, they would have been in perfect bliss now… or something like it. Maybe he didn't have to have sex with the deceased, after all. A new plan that didn't involve hiding bodies seemed almost better.

In the next city for Raw, he had recruited the help he desperately needed from an expert. Spending an hour in the bathroom trying to replicate Youtube videos all by himself of dance routines had gotten extremely suspicious, and the first threat of Roman breaking down the door was enough to put that to a stop. Of course, nothing was going on in there that wasn't something he would do out in the open on his bed. Still, he had understood the concern that Seth had probably raised about staying in there so long - either that, or it had stemmed from the basic complaint that the talkative wrestler couldn't manage to go a few minutes without fixing his prized hair that no one else was allowed to touch… not even in bed.

Dean figures if this new plan been nothing more than a failure - an attempt at romance that ended up being nothing more than sheer embarrassment, that the revenge plot he had in mind the previous week after the painful rejection could easily be taken off the backburner and put in motion.

Not paying attention, his beautiful instructor turns back to him and requests that he try to do the moves she had just performed. He shifts awkwardly. Fandango meant the world right now; and Ambrose had never failed at anything before, he requests she performs the move a second time, his focus at full attention now.

This was far different than shimmying in the bathroom; releasing his inner-slut… And he was at least good at that; and as if letting his secret desire for Fandango, his hopelessly swooning self showed for a brief moment: he had even done the ridiculous shimmy in the ring for a split moment… Right in front of Roman, who had thankfully failed to read more into that.

Dean takes an uncertain breath, slowly beginning to sway his body and move on the shining floor. Marisol's tanned latte skin was almost distractingly soft, as well as her perfectly styled dark hair in a few soft curls. He thinks, perhaps, that she must have seen the determination in his face to leave there an expert; even if he had two left feet at the moment. Even then, she was respectful enough to take her time with him; and you could always trust a woman with a smile like that - the fact that she had no awareness of the WWE outside of who Dwayne Johnson was helped even more.

Dean, of course, had wanted to establish himself as the leader even when dancing; to romance Fandango with his expertise in the ballroom as well as the ring, though for now she guides him, his arm around her waist and her hand in his other. He stares down at their feet as he steps forward when she steps back, moving side to side and following her lead while he took a small grasp in the concept of rhythm. He soaks in every piece of knowledge like the details of a well planned assault.

His instructor had even informed him that it was a romantic dance, a dance about love. It was perfect; Fandango would enjoy the thought put into that, and the romantic mush about it.

Dean attempts to assess every bit of having true, meaningful feelings of affection in the way he knew Seth always had; he was always so dreamy about finding what he termed "The One," Seth was the guy who already had wedding cake flavors picked out based on the latest person he had fallen hard for, because he was always quick to be that person to fall in, what he called, "Love" and to break up just as abruptly if everything wasn't completely perfect.

For once, romance was not offering Ambrose anything; Rollin's little flings with who he thought he was settling down with had always benefited the leader of The Shield personally, whether it be catching the partially blonde Superstar on the rebound- which was always so nice - or reaping the rewards of his relationships… and there was many, many rewards.

Cameras and necessary resources and equipment from Dusty Rhodes, to their tactical vests, and even those free pretzels from that guy working concession that actually listened to Seth talk about his feelings - he was sure that guy was "The One" for a good fifteen minutes before their appearance on Smackdown.

Even now, Seth's romance still rakes in rewards for Ambrose and Reigns; the high-profile set ups his current-thing with Paul Heyman allowed them, and an inside, intelligent view on who to attack next and where to find them alone.

He attempts to master everything in a few short hours of dance training before the main event tonight, no matter how unlikely that was. For his next session he scheduled in the next city, he had to get a firm grasp of everything he could. How to walk together, the basics of turning and how to look just as flashy as Fandango while remaining a masculine militia leader.

He attempts to take mental notes on how to construct the dance to something memorable, something practicable in private and attempt to prove that it only took one person to tango. Maybe that idea was just silly, but Dean Ambrose was a truly determined and dedicated man.

His feet begin to comprehend moving in a counterclockwise movement around the dance floor, comparing it to squaring up in the ring.

His unease turned to a less than elegant flow until he was moving smoothly and floating in place with her ruffled red dress and perfect curls.

This dance seemed just so perfectly chosen once he slowly began to understand it; the beauty in the movement when he watched the way she moved, the way he was supposed to be moving that was much unlike a bird attempting to land onto a lake. Ambrose could practically feel the passion he would feel with Fandango in his arms, an embrace he would never consider breaking for anything; the stunned expression on his love's face, his beautiful, deep blue eyes and strands of brown hair falling on his forehead. An unfamiliar sight of seeing someone fall in love with you; he couldn't wait. He guesses the expression is something like what Rollins usually looked like, captivated with his fly-by boyfriends; or simply meeting someone who would listen to him talk.

Weeks of private lessons through the morning and afternoon had gone not without undue suspicion from his Shield partners. The secret dance lessons had made incredible strides in his ballroom ability; and his declaration that he could master and perfect anything. Dean Ambrose was not a failure at anything. He never would be. He'd have Fandango's legs wrapped around his waist - willingly - and the first title belt he could capture along with those beautiful, long, tan legs.

He had mastered the basics with ease, what had once been the most awkward of dancing and stumbling had now been transitioned into a somewhat-graceful flow. Ambrose maintained his dominant and powerful nature that showed even through his graceful walk. He turned with poise and elegance, his strength still conveyed through every move he had put together on the dance floor. He led his partner on the dance floor and transitioned smoothly with each elaborate move.


	4. Special Ops: Declassified

Seth and Roman perk up from the bed; the large man sits up quickly, though without suspicion as the highlighted raven haired man rolls off of him. Rollins had attempted to get Roman to play-fight with him for the past hour after video games and the hotel gym became a bore, and long after Heyman had stop responding to his lover's texts, as he was far too busy organizing Punk's various appearances and prying him out of John Layfield's arms long enough to do a radio interview.

Ambrose looks at them from his position against the door, eyebrow quirked slightly as he looks over them. He rubs at the back of his thigh and sighs with exhaustion, knowing that eyes had been on him since he walked in, but the difference between looking at them, and they at him, was that he again had been under harsh scrutiny for the past couple of months over his whereabouts.

He walks into the room quietly, not acknowledging any of Seth's greetings or responding when he continues to talk on, and on, and on. He sits on the end of the bed and kicks his sneakers off after unlacing them, they land somewhere near the dresser and television and will not be picked up until it's time to pack. He yawns and stands up after pulling his shirt off, going through a quick routine of stretches for his back, legs and arms. With another exhausted yawn, Roman's hand comes to rest on his shoulder and he turns quickly, startled in the middle of stretching out his left arm.

He's not prepared for the brigade of questions that Roman unleashes on him; the normally quiet man was reading through this laundry list of questions, allegations and suspicions, all the while Seth comes up beside the big man and nods, interjecting his own add-on questions and more. Ambrose narrows his eyes at them after his initial surprise has subsided, and he had not been prepared for how loudly he was about to yell at each of them; sending his followers scrambling away from him and back to the bed; taking cover at one another's side.

Dean paces. He paces until Seth's raspy voice peeps up in a quiet little squeak, calling his leader's name so quietly that the initial fright from being yelled at was still very evident. He can see the faux blonde duck behind Roman's muscular frame just as he stops pacing and looks back. He rubs at his temples and walks toward the two who immediately flinch and scurry back just a bit further up the bed, which initially bothers Ambrose until he finds the space he wants to sit at unoccupied. He moves onto the bed in front of them, and uses his gentlest voice to coax Seth away from Roman and to his side, to which the man refuses at first, but slowly comes closer and sits on his knees in front of Ambrose; his eyebrows arched with worry and the nervousness still evident in his eyes. With a deep sigh, he takes Seth's hands in his own and rubs his thumbs gently over the soft, tan skin and waits for the nerves to settle down.

Dean Ambrose had not truly realized the strain he was putting on his team mates.

He whispers Seth's name softly, and the boy looks up at him as innocent as could be; nodding softly and repeating Dean's name back to him. Ambrose smiles, and it becomes his turn to be nervous and unsure: a quality he never possessed. Rollins had been the perfect person in his eyes. He remembers his first time attempting dance lessons, taking inspiration to do such a feat of uncharacteristic activity in the name of everything Seth represented about love. Seth did fall hard for everyone he claimed to be in love with. Seth was a serial dater, but he felt strongly about everyone, no matter for how short a time. Seth did have his wedding planned for each guy he dated: the cake, the suits, the guests, the menus, the music and the way he wanted to arrive as the ideal partner; to be objectified as perfection. Seth was dreamy, romantic and believed in "true love." Dean was hurt too many times, believed that "love" was nonsense until everything took an unfortunate change. He stares down at their hands. Seth Rollins would understand, and as for Roman Reigns; he had no idea what to expect from him.

With a deep sigh, Dean confesses. He confesses everything. Absolutely everything. The rejection. The day he started dance lessons, how he progressed, how he found the time for it before shows, and that he was so damned to Fandango that he had become quite the skilled dancer in a few short months of training,. Maybe he had not been a master of the art of dance, but he was able to perform to perfection at Rollins' wedding, he jokes.

It's quiet.

Dean had not expected quiet.

Anything but quiet.

He shifts nervously and stops stroking Seth's hands.

Seth looks at him, blankly at first, and then he slowly begins to smile. He laughs and he throws his arms around Dean's neck and kisses his cheek. He doesn't even mind that he startles Ambrose with his reaction and he shoves him down on the bed, sitting up on his lap and staring down at him. He yells at him, but he's happy, it's a good kind of yelling that makes Ambrose laugh in between thinking he had to hide his feelings all these months for Fandango and what he was doing to try and win his love. Seth swoons and falls over onto the bed beside him; it was the most romantic thing he had ever heard of.

The bed shifts and they both look up at Roman, who is shaking his head with disbelief.

"Seth and Heyman?" he rolls his eyes, "You and …Fandango?" he chuckles. "Feels good to be normal."

Seth's eyes light up and he grabs Dean up, shaking him. The first time hearing that the behemoth had feelings for someone. Romantic feelings. Seth stares in awe and continues to shake Dean, going through his list of possible matches he would have set up his friend with. It was a seemingly short list, but Seth had already decided that Roman's match could not be just anybody; they had to be truly special.

Interrupting Seth's joyous new discovery that now all of his friends had found someone they loved; Dean refuses Reigns' privacy, something that seemed rather easy to do now.

Roman looks completely dumbfounded when Ambrose simply blurts out that he knew, and had known all along that he had fallen for the Smackdown announcer: Justin Roberts. Apparently, in Ambrose's words, he was a psychopathic stalker about the way he treated the idea of being in love with the ring announcer. Staring at him. Following him. Everything.

"Now, I need your help tonight…"

Sierra. Hotel. India. Echo. Lima. Delta. The Shield.

Dean Ambrose leads the team through the arena, surrounding the ring where Wade Barrett had been arrogantly circling his fallen opponent, preparing for his last attack. The Englishman does not simply back down to the threat that was oncoming outside of the ring, and doesn't hesitate to step toward the ropes as Ambrose hoists himself onto the apron, lunging forward and taking Barrett to the ground, delivering a quick beat down aided by Rollins and Reigns before throwing The Bare Knuckle Fighter from the ring.

Surrendering to better judgment, Wade brushes himself off, self-importantly leaving up the ramp, his pride intact. He had a oncoming match at the next Pay Per View… he couldn't risk injury.

Barrett's victim had just managed to scramble to his feet in the distracted assault. Brown eyes are in a frenzy as they observe the surroundings, going from Reigns and Rollins and finally hesitating to look at Ambrose.

Once, he had made the grave mistake with the man to cause this oncoming assault. Just out of his own narcissism, he assumed he was in the clear because he was simply …himself.

His throat is dry when he gulps, brushing stray strands of brunette locks from his eyes as he wordlessly pleads with them as they surround him. He couldn't begin to vocalize his fright. He backs himself up into Reigns as he aimlessly tried to find a turnbuckle or rope to escape through. He's picked up onto his feet and pushed forward into the center of the ring, cowering whereas Rollins immediately moves away from his kill; looking pained to resist the attack.

He watches in fright as the younger Ambrose takes slow strides, encompassing him like prey being stalked; Rollins had only backed away for his leader to make the kill. He whimpers. He whimpers loudly. Nothing was happening. Ambrose was playing games with him. He unwraps his arms from their protective cover around his stomach. He felt sick. He glances at the crowd, and back to Ambrose.

Blue eyes meet brown and something clicks for the older man that this might not have been an attack. He glances down at the outstretched hand waiting for his before he looks back into the pools of blue; he reaches out slowly, nervous and still frightened. His palm comes to rest in Dean's, shaking with nerves; his stalker's pasty fingers wrap around the back of his hand softly, he's pulled forward and instinctively, the ballroom brawler twirls, spinning into Ambrose's chest and being locked into an elegant embrace.  
Fandango's hand moves to rest on his pursuer's shoulder, pressed up against his tactical vest and feeling the man's hand holding him on the small of his back, pressing their bodies together. Fandango throws his right leg around Ambrose's waist, his left extended as he leans into him.A perfect pose to the argentine tango he knew so flawlessly.

Fandango had rejected Dean for one of two simple reasons; the first being that he just could not dance, and now here Ambrose was, scoring an easy 9.0 to any judge.

Dean shifts their pose, dipping Fandango and staring down into his beautiful brown eyes before standing him back up, twirling him away simply and exiting the ring.


	5. Modern Warfare: Finest Hour

Fandango fawns over his gorgeous lover who had been leaning with boredom on the bar counter swirling his cocktail around in his tanned fingertips; the ice clinking softly against the glass muffled by the loud music pouring out into the streets. Relaxing at the bar was awfully difficult, which was unusual. The dancing Superstar had so much on his mind, he finishes the cocktail in his hand and orders another one quickly.

He could not comprehend what had happened in the ring - The Shield had not attacked him, he was alive and well, albeit incredibly stunned. He runs his fingers through his hair as he waits for the next drink to be placed inside of him so he could play with the umbrella in it and stab at the orange slice on the side. Dean Ambrose had learned how to dance - to impress him; and it did… It was really, really impressive, Fandango figures. Everything was perfect right down to the placement of his feet in those combat boots. The feel of his hands on his thighs and back, the way they moved fluidly together: he resisted admitting it was romantic. What was very easy to admit was the fact that he was right about Dean Ambrose: he would not lead his militia against him simply because he was in love.

It was nice to know Ambrose was still in love with him.

For the third or fourth time - because who was counting anymore? - the Superstar nuzzles into the side of his lover's neck, cupping his cheek and attempting to turn his face from the cute guy serving their drinks to no avail.

Fandango is swatted away several times, the annoyance factor of the raven haired man going undetected. He begs in a husky, sultry voice for his boyfriend to dance with him, Michael Falconeri was a professional, after all; the perfect compliment to the wrestler, equally gorgeous, a little older and an international television star with many accomplishments - all without having to dance alongside Chris Jericho: because he had his own real celebrities to train.

They could reign victorious on the dance floor together, someday, but for the past year that promise had gone unfulfilled. Tonight it was going unfulfilled, too. When swatting at his younger partner like a fly had not ceased the annoying tugging, he had finally raised his voice to Fandango, getting him to back off so he could try and blatantly pick up the bartender instead.

Many of the Superstars had not even considered that Fandango had been telling the truth about his relationship; the only one who had even known and seen it first hand was Chris Jericho, and he had just went on leading the belief that the new addition to the roster was nothing more than a liar, painfully single, and a mere attention seeking, dancing amateur.

The darker side of the man Fandango had fallen in love with was very well hidden from public view, publicists and even the young Superstar himself had gone through great lengths to keep things under wrap.

To the drinking, chronic anger, the domestic violence and the furious reactions in public to the paparazzo, and the numerous times Falconeri had cheated on "amore mio" Fandango - who always defended and forgave his Dancing With the Stars champion, it was all kept secret.

A few songs later, and his favorite one playing, Fandango begs again for Michael to dance with him, to upstage the untalented, unskilled wrestlers having a good time dancing together, to give everyone backstage sitting there something tactful to watch. Something that had nothing to do with the way Justin Gabriel grinded hard on Wade Barrett's crotch. It was just an injustice to see something like that, when he had real, raw talent to show off.

This time he was set to accomplish getting his lover's attention through placing soft kisses over his neck and cheek, each time inhaling the subtle musky scent of addicting cologne that had him begging for more with every kiss he wouldn't receive back.

Gently, he tugs on Michael's arm, fingers caressing the tan olive flesh. He receives a harsh glare from those sultry bistre eyes glazed over from one too many drinks, a warning of sorts. When that too had not worked, the Salvadorian dancing sensation finally turned and smacked the brunette wrestler, the sound of flesh on flesh almost sounding off through the bar that was somewhere between enjoying themselves and waiting for a fight to break out.

Waiting to cut into a dance took forever, and just when it seemed like it wouldn't happen, another opportunity had arose. From the back corner of the bar, Ambrose rises from his seat with Rollins and Reigns a step behind him.

If Falconeri had still been looking at Fandango, he would have seen what was suddenly standing behind the wrestler; hovering over him like a shield. He felt the presence of the man younger than he disappear, figuring, as usual, that the kid had wandered off to sulk.

A loud crack detonates through the facility, a brutal punch catching him square in the jaw and knocking him from the barstool while his drink slips from his grasp and bursts on the floor. Grabbing at his jaw, he stares up at his attacker, knowing it couldn't possibly have been his darling Fandango.

Dean Ambrose stands over Fandango's boyfriend, kicking him against the counter and looking like some kind of deranged psychopath when he laughs and charges for the older man. Michael was far too shocked to react as fast as he would have, he scrambles half to his feet, his fist connects with Ambrose's face when he bends to grab him, he had just barely connected with his mouth but it was still enough to find that he had drawn blood from the sociopath. Retreating by only a step, Dean swipes his fist across his mouth, examining the blood on his pale skin with a sly grin.

With the roar of a man ensnared by primal instinct, Roman rushes forward, tackling the elder celebrity onto the floor; throwing all of his massive body weight into him, his powerful body sending them both crashing onto the floor. Michael was pinned under the colossal body of the Samoan. The sound of ribs cracking and breath hitched rung in Reigns' ears victoriously; it was even better when he pulled himself up off the man, staring down at the sharp pain evident in his prey's mind. He couldn't help himself. He was consumed by his need to inflict pain: to attack. He begins pummeling the victim beneath him mercilessly; screaming as he laid in punch after punch.

Fandango was caught up in the grasp of Rollins, his gloved hands securing the dancer's arms as he hauls him away from the scene and moves in front of him, protecting his leader's beloved obsession. Ambrose had recollected himself, rushing to the pair and holding Fandango gently, one hand on his hip and the other cupping his hurt cheek; he whispers softly at him, trying to gage his level of injury and sighing with relief when the other man was not hurt badly. Dean offers a sweet smile, which unfortunately does not come across correctly as his beloved dancer backs away; caught again in Rollins' tight grip. Dean can see it on his team mate's face; the need, the want, the lust to fight. With a slight nod to him, Seth releases Fandango and rushes to Reigns' side.

Roman is up on his feet as Seth nears, drooling for a piece of meat. The idiotic boyfriend was apparently unwilling to go down without a fight, Rollins' heartbeat quickening as he literally bounced to get into the brawl, waiting for Roman's word. He loved to be unleashed. Seth was quick on his toes and that seemed to infuriate the man more; every strike, no matter how misdirected or dazed was connecting to air. Seth chuckles; he could never be caught off guard. He was so focused on the man that he just about forgot that Paul Heyman was nearby; having drinks with Lesnar. It was his chance to impress his own boyfriend, too.

Seth lunges at him; cracked ribs taking a forceful kick with all the strength the high flier had in his smaller body. He stomps down on his body, laid out on the ground with raw power and backs off quickly, eager to get the man to just try and come at him. Seth liked to play. He whimpers at the familiar combat boot that steps down on the man's throat; his fun was over so shortly; he hated the fact that Dean rarely let him loose; he was so protective just because he was the smallest of the group. He retreats without being told, standing beside Roman who has his eyes locked on Fandango in front of him; the man wasn't running anymore. He was still; quiet, watching everything unfold around him.

Dean smiles at the man crushed beneath his boot like the scum he was. He throws his head back and cackles. It's a frightening sound; a victorious one. Justice was served. He kicks the man pathetically before reaching down, grabbing him up by the collar; Michael Falconeri had no fight left in him anymore; he was weak, as pathetic psychically as he was mentally.

"Drop him!"

Dean hardly glances over, the commanding voice gets louder and finally there are hands on him. He turns, blinking and tilting his head innocently at the police officer, releasing the man in his grip and allowing the police to take him. Dean would have been screwed; but Seth had again been the perfect lifesaver; he sure knew how to pick a boyfriend.

Heyman fixes the lapels of his suit, strutting over beside Ambrose and putting himself between he and the officer, shaking the man's hand and thanking him for coming, for his duty to the city, for choosing the career path he had and for risking his life to protect citizens.

The officer begins to speak, cut off once again by The Voice of The Voice of the Voiceless; Heyman introduces the officer to Ambrose, Rollins and Reigns: vigilantes, but they meant well, Fandango is next, followed by a full incident report by Paul. The manager had banded together several other key witnesses, bar staff and WWE employees alike to testify that the brawl was started by the wrestler's abusive boyfriend, stating his key evidence would be on the security cameras, as well as on the dancer's bruised face.

The situation nodded in favor of The Shield. Fandango stares on as his lover's hands are cuffed behind his back, and looks in disbelief as the officer shares a few laughs with Heyman and even thanks The Shield for their work; complimenting Ambrose on looking like an enforcer of the law and a man of justice.

Heyman walks the officer to the door, he would be down at the station early the next morning with Rollins before their flight home to fill out paperwork and incident reports; and possibly do a bit of press and media depending on how fast the news of the arrest of a Dancing with the Stars celebrity was to break out.

Fandango is drawn out of his thoughts and shock by a soft voice in his ear, his hands are taken into Ambrose's and he stares down at them before looking up; smiling nervously and stepping closer to him, allowing his arms to wrap around his body. They kiss. It's perfect. It's everything Rollins had promised kissing someone you loved, not just wanted to fuck, would feel like.

Fandango exhales heavily and looks into his beautiful blue eyes, "I've never had anyone love me the way that you do, Dean Ambrose."


End file.
